


Clematis

by Yeaka RC (yeaka)



Category: Original Work, Wrong Mask
Genre: M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:26:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25815016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/Yeaka%20RC
Summary: Rune sees something he likes.
Relationships: Aarav/Rune
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	Clematis

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is a prelude to my short story on Kindle.
> 
> Disclaimer: I actually do own Wrong Mask! Too bad I’m still not making any money off this.

His sweat is so thick that it’s leaked through his clothes, and the hot late-spring sun doesn’t do much to help. By the time he makes it out of the broiling kitchens, his uniform’s stuck to his skin—he peels off his jacket the second his shift’s over, even though the head chef glares at him for it. He can’t bring himself to care. He’s busy panting, bee-lining right for the gardens—out through the giant arched columns and into the open air. The sun’s sinking, the sky growing darker, but it’s still a particularly muggy day. He has half a mind to throw his jacket to the ground and collapse on top of it, sleeping right in the royal gardens—maybe by the time he wakes up, it’ll be a deliciously cool night, and he’ll be able to amble home in peace. 

Rune blows a strand of long black hair out of his eyes and peers around to see if anyone would notice. The hedges are so high that he can’t see very far, aside from the towering palace behind him and the well-groomed trees in the distance. Colourful pavilions and ancient statues pop up along the horizon, occasionally sporting creeping vines or perched birds. It’s a beautiful place—every bit as rich and splendorous as he’d hoped. It’s far nicer than the stables he came from. The job he’s gotten is menial, but it’s _something_ —a step up—so he thinks he’ll probably come back tomorrow. _Probably._ Then he remembers the searing heat of the stove and the bustle of activity around flailing knives and red-hot cookware, and suddenly, he’s not so sure. The stables were far less stressful. But poor and lonely.

Rune doesn’t _need_ nice things, but he likes them. As he starts meandering forward, through the hedges instead of back through the palace, he wills himself to look around, to take it in—to _appreciate_ the art all around him. That was the entire point of coming to the palace. He has an artist’s heart but no skill. He’s willing to do whatever tedious task he must in order to enjoy such beauty. 

The royal gardens are certainly that. They don’t just hold flowers, but _every kind_ of flower he’s ever seen and several dozen he hasn’t, all arranged perfectly, trimmed neatly, interwoven with flare and style, interspersed with calm pools and tranquil fountains and captivating carvings. The insets are just arriving as the sun sets, and voluminous butterflies traipse leisurely along the winding path. There won’t be time to see everything before night falls, but there’s certainly enough to get a taste. He already feels lighter as he weaves under a curtain of wisteria and follows a trail of rebe to an open expanse of emerald grass and low stone benches.

There’s a man on one at the far end of the clearing, bent over an open book across his lap, intent on its words. It’s the first person Rune’s seen in the gardens not done up in servants’ attire and busily coming or going. In fact, the man looks quite cozy, tucked in at the end, back nestled against the hedge, half covered in the shadow of an early-blooming Gulmohar tree. Even in the waning light and with the distance between them, Rune can see that the man is _beautiful_.

Rune’s feet starting moving automatically. It isn’t just the expensive, gold-rimmed robes stretched across a taut middle and broad shoulders, or the suave, elegantly-styled black hair, or the rich brown colour of the man’s smooth skin—the thoughtful expression that flicks across his handsome visage as he reads tugs Rune forward. Then Rune gets close enough to realize that this isn’t a fellow servant he can easily chat up—and he certainly would—that pretty face is a familiar one, albeit only ever seen from afar and in paintings. Rune’s approaching _the prince._

He falters. Of course he knows of Prince Aarav, the sole heir to the throne, the youngest and most progressive member of the ruling council. He’s heard plenty of Prince Aarav’s charms, of his wit, of his calm countenance and want for change, but Rune didn’t realize just how enchanting that legend was. Of course he’d like to march over and drop into a bow, regale the prince with his own charm and wit, but Rune isn’t that naïve. 

He’s new, a mere servant—a low born and wholly disposable _no one_. He also has his unkempt hair in a rather messy bun at the back of his head, stray strands all over his still-sweaty neck and cheeks, and his rumpled uniform smells worse than the stables did. He realizes he can’t possibly go any further. 

Which is a shame, because when the prince flips his page, he brings the book up just enough for Rune to see a sliver of the cover and recognizes it instantly as his favourite cult classic—an underground tale of two mermen desperately in love. It isn’t available in any shop or market and must be _specially_ found, because romances like that aren’t something to be held out in the open. 

Perhaps with Aarav as king, they someday will be. Hope flutters in Rune’s chest. 

But common sense gets the better of him. With one last forlorn look over his shoulder, he backs out and wanders the way he came, sure that he’ll be back tomorrow, because one way or another, he’ll talk to the prince eventually.


End file.
